I Just Thought
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: Small Johnlock (mostly) ficlets that pop up in my mind. Not interconnected.
1. The Reader of Signs

_So these are just some things I wrote... a long time ago... and I had no idea what to do with them. But anyway. These can be read individually if you like, because I don't really think of continuity when I write them. I'll keep updating as I write these. Anyway. I own nothing, obviously._

...

**The Reader of Signs**

Over the course of his forty-one years of life, John Watson has had many titles – Doctor, Captain, and more recently, Hug-Giver, Love-Whisperer and Tongue-Dancer. These recent ones have been awarded to him by his cranky, lanky love in the late recesses of the night, after a particularly rewarding session or two of, well, hugging and kissing and love-whispering and tongue-dancing, among other... activities.

Over the past few years, however, Doctor John H. Watson has earned another title, one he is much respected for among his peers at the New Scotland Yard – The Reader of Signs. DI Greg Lestrade was the one to give it to him, and he has worn it proudly - for not every person has the talent and patience to learn how to read the signs and symbols Sherlock Holmes portrays. It's a tough job, no denying it. Yet John Watson is the perfect man for it.

He's able to interpret the tiniest jerk of the head to the biggest tantrum, and frankly, everyone admires him for it. So, he'll tell you, if you ask (not that many people do), that a subtle nod and smile from the usually not-so-subtle detective holds infinitely more meaning than his eloquent words. It screams, 'Yes, I'm lying to the witness, so back me up here,' louder than anything else. A small touch to the arm in the middle of a shout from Lestrade could mean 'Thank you for having my back there,' or simply, 'I'm hungry.' For while Sherlock Holmes claims he does not need to eat, sleep or even breathe like the regular human (god forbid that were ever to happen), his sweetheart almost always knows better than to take his protests seriously.

A flick of the eyes is more indicative of what Sherlock wants the good doctor to do while on a case, and this is always responded with a small nod from the latter in the affirmative. A deep furrow of the brow and flopping about on the sofa speaks of the onset of the black cloud of boredom from lack of cases for a long period of time (there's only so much boredom shagging and Doctor Who can get rid of) and John takes this as his cue to call Lestrade and ask him for the cold cases he's reserved specially for those days.

And that wicked twitching of the mouth and brightening of the eyes... well, John knows very well _exactly_ what that means. It's a peek into the dirty thoughts that swirl around in Sherlock's mind, making John blush slightly and try to will his little friend down below to disappear for a bit, because _for-god's-sake-we're-in-public-Sherlock!_ He doesn't succeed very often, thus explaining their disappearances right in the middle of interrogating important suspects or undercover in a cheese factory.

It's not just the visual signs, but the sounds Sherlock makes, too, from time to time. The little, satisfied sighs in bed every time they come from slow, sweet administrations to the other's body. The indistinct clearing of the throat every time someone is trodding on his already-frayed nerves and _I-just-need-you-to-get-rid-of-them-John_. All indicators. Every single one of them.

For to John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is an open book, one he's learned to slowly read over the years, always learning, always remembering. And he hopes that his sweet, infuriating love will never stop being the way he is, always teaching him new things about himself.

…

_Thoughts?_

___PS - those following Prepare For Trouble (Or Make it Double) - don't worry. The last chapter is under way (tho when I'll post it I'm not too sure), and I haven't abandoned it._


	2. Longing

**Longing**

So even I'm not above feeling lonely from time to time! I _am_ human after all, even when I try and wish so desperately not to be. When you go out with that endless parade of girlfriends - so dull, so pathetically predictable - it hurts. I don't even know what you see in them, all they ever want from you is always exactly the same - a steady relationship, regular coitus and so many gifts. At the end of that, marriage and children. Sure, you would 'love' her and all that that word entails, but you wouldn't be satisfied no matter how hard you tried. I know what you crave, John, and it's adventure. That was why you went to Afghanistan. You wanted to do something for your country, yes, but that adrenaline pumping through your veins, the thrill of the chase – _that_ was what you lived for. That is _why_ you choose to live with me. I make life interesting for you. Hard sometimes, extremely hard, but never a moment is dull. Never boring. And I know that best of all because when I said 'adventure' that first day, there you were, ready to join me.

And then, over the course of our living together, I have grown... fond of you, in ways I wouldn't have been able to bear before. You have become a friend, looking out for me always, sometimes even risking your life, and _that_ is something I cannot ignore. But growing unduly fond of you was an accident. A happy accident. I grew to like you even more than one does a friend, constantly looking forward to your praise at my deductions (something no-one except Mummy had done before), to those little secretive smiles reserved especially for me. Yet you continued with those girlfriends, and I hated them every second that they were out on countless dates with you, wishing every single time that it was me with you instead of them, having a perfectly lovely time for once.

I'm obviously not devoid of emotion like most people think, and this... emotion I feel every time I look at you overpowers me. It empties my mind of all else but thoughts of you. You, whom I like to think of as 'my' John. My brave, loyal, loving John. My John Watson, who brings out the best in everyone.

This is one area where I don't know what to do, in which I never know what to do. Because I know you feel the same way, John, just one look at your body language around me reveals everything. Why do you still continue with this pointless charade? Help me here in this one thing, tell me what to do. Only with your help can I move forward.

Because I know you love me, John Watson, the same way that I know I love you. It is irrefutable, like the earth going round the sun. Why deny it? For the sake of pride? Pride would mean that you keep your head held high no matter what you feel for anybody, whether male or female.

Do one thing for me, John, and stop living in denial.

...

_Thoughts?_


	3. Acceptance

**Acceptance**

I try, Sherlock. I try so hard to suppress my feelings for you each day, promising myself that I will rid myself of them. But it's a futile prospect, a thing of the past. No matter how hard I try, it's inescapable - I love you. Which is made doubly harder by the fact that I know you're married to your work and are so consumed and caught up in it that you have room for little else. I will always have to live with the knowledge that my love for you will go unrequited, unlike the seasoned surety with which I throw myself into the pointless, boring relationships with countless women. All of whom matter so little to me, but I keep trying anyway, in order to find someone who engages me to the point that my love for you is in the distant past. An unlikely situation with you in the picture, but a man's got to try.

Romance has always been my forte, so I can tell you the way my heart begins to play the conga whenever you're so close to me is so completely unnatural and much too loud that I fear that you'll be able to hear it. It hurts when you pay more attention to your work and your experiments than to me, your friend and flatmate, and it irritates me to no end.

I know you consider yourself friendless and alone in this world, but believe me, you are not. You will always have me. And you are most definitely not devoid of emotion, if your friendship with me over the past few years has been anything to go by.

I know I am a brave man. I can be brave and do things like invade Afghanistan, but I am not brave enough to reveal my true feelings to my best friend and do something about them. And somehow, somewhere deep inside me, I know you love me too, but my conscious self doesn't want to acknowledge the possibility out of fear of rejection.

It's getting harder and harder to ignore my feelings for you by the day. When we come back from a case, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, mirth covering your face, it's all I can do to stop myself from pushing you up against the wall and snogging you senseless. Because, you beautiful bastard, that's what you do to me. You play with my feelings (without knowing it, of course) and leave me more confused than ever. When you sit on the sofa in a dressing gown some mornings, with your feet up and a steaming mug of tea in hand, you look extremely huggable and I just want to cuddle next to you, feeling your solid warmth. There are a lot more situations I find myself craving more than just friendly contact with you in, but there's no point making such a list.

This is what I've become. This is what you've turned me into. Not that I regret any of it, of course, but then again, you do make life difficult for me in whichever way you can. You are an infuriating, challenging, demanding, fascinating, engaging, mesmerising and amazing man, Sherlock Holmes, for lack of better words. You're my undoing and my making, and I love you for it. And I will follow you to the ends of the earth if necessary.

...

_Thoughts?_


	4. Coffee

_A/N: This has actually happened to me. I quite literally get drunk on excessive caffeine. It's not half bad an experience. _

...

**Coffee**

They don't usually drink coffee. Their preferred choice of non-alcoholic drink is almost always tea. How very British. But it IS necessary sometimes, when they have to stay up late at night researching for a case or Sherlock's being a cranky drama queen and won't let John sleep if _he_ doesn't sleep. That's all very well.

What Sherlock _can_ recall (along with a fit of un-Sherlock-like giggles) with clarity is that every single time John drinks more than two mugs of coffee, he gets... sort-of, well, _drunk_, with the excessive caffeine in his system. Usually one mug is enough to keep John awake for the next ten-or-so hours (it has a pretty strong impact on him), but two or more are occasionally required. Sherlock enjoys himself each time this happens. ('And it's not fucking _funny_, okay? I'll thank you very much, Sherlock, not to mention these things _freely_. How about I tell everyone about that time when you 'accidentally' singed off all your pubic hair and _eyebrows_?' 'You can go right ahead, John.' 'You bloody git.' *much kissing and shagging*)

The first time it happened was when they were on that Pembleton case, the one with the drugs and dogs. Sherlock was out on the streets until late, and when he came back to 221b soaked and generally in a bad mood, it was to find John acutely observing a pair of his underwear. The Batman ones. The ones he always keeps hidden in the back of his drawer, away from curious eyes ('I _like_ Batman, so what?' 'Nothing. Nothing at all.'). But somehow, John had found them. This would've been fine, except they hadn't got together yet. And Sherlock wasn't used to his privacy being invaded yet. (John was _very_ used this. _Very_.)

So Sherlock was _not_ amused by this. Not at all.

And then John had looked up at him and opened his mouth.

'Heyyyyyy there, beautiful. Whattt're you up to?'

He was _extremely_ cheerful. And extremely horny.

It hadn't taken very long for Sherlock to first blush bright red, then start laughing his arse off. At first he'd thought John was completely pissed as a prune and relished the opportunity of finding out what a drunk John Watson was like (he didn't have much experience with the latter – scratch that, he didn't have any experience with drunk John at _all_), but then he saw John's mug on the dining table and put one and one together (which is what he does best), and concluded that Doctor John Hamish Watson was, indeed, drunk on _coffee_. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the night of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes' first kiss and their first time having sex. Which John Watson remembered clearly, even in the morning after the effects of caffeine in his body had worn off. Both parties were rather happy at this development, if a little awkward for a day or two around each other.

And there's been no looking back now that they're together. So those three other times John's been sloshed on coffee? Sherlock's taken full advantage of the fact that his love's inebriated (well...) and they've had some of the hottest, clumsiest, best sex of their relationship. It's not like normal inebriation, though, and like that first time, John remembers what had happened the previous night, which actually just helps.

A coffee-drunk John is the best altered-state-of-mind-John there is, according to Sherlock Holmes, and he's the only one who's ever seen him like that. He considers himself lucky.

...

_Thoughts?_


	5. Sunny Spanish Beaches

**Sunny Spanish beaches**

Something that still surprises John is how much Sherlock missed out on a normal childhood – while Sherlock _did_ have a lot of fun with his experiments under Mycroft's gentle (but thorough) tutelage, he _did_ completely miss out on other childhood experiences most boys go through. Which is why, while they're on a case in Barcelona (something about a murdered Spanish heiress and her rather large, _missing_ diamonds – they're here on Mycroft's insistence), John's decided to make the most of it.

Having been to the Catalonian capital once as a teenager, he knows just the places to go (though it's possible his knowledge is a bit rusty) and see. But the difficult part is convincing Sherlock to go along with what he wants. He knows Sherlock's a sappy romantic even if he doesn't admit it ('I am _not_!' 'Then how d'you explain the roses and the violin on our fifth anniversary?'), so in the end, he won't mind. But first, the case.

The case is turning out to be more complicated than Sherlock thought (they've alerted Interpol to look for a man with a beard 'as long as Dumbledore's' – 'Who's Dumbledore?' asked a bewildered Sherlock) and the hotel bill is just _skyrocketing_, given the amount of laundry they're generating (_ahem_) – must be nice, John often thinks wistfully, having the British government as your elder brother. Until they can gather more evidence, they're stuck at a dead end. And Sherlock likes it not one bit. But what John sees here is an _opportunity_.

And so the great Sherlock Holmes is hauled to the beach, armed with a spade, a bucket and an enthusiastic John Watson. They spend over two hours building sandcastles – a skill Sherlock seems to be particularly adept at, while John watches his sweetheart's face light up with delight every time he makes a new moat or drawbridge. That time is cut woefully short, according to Sherlock, when John gently takes him to the cycle stand and rents out a tandem bicycle for them for the hour.

'You-you do know how to ride a bicycle, right?' John eyes Sherlock apprehensively.

The latter snorts in derision. 'Don't be silly, John.' He grabs the handle and gestures to John to sit on the back seat.

All in all, it's a productive day. (John nearly falls off the bike when Sherlock swerves sharply and glares at him a good long while. 'I'm a little rusty is all,' is the consulting detective's explanation. All is forgiven seven scorching kisses and a few dirty promises later.)

Sherlock finds a crucial piece of evidence the same night and the case is closed the following after. On the flight back home (blissful home), Sherlock slumps his head on John's shoulder and the good doctor winds and rewinds his finger around a curl in the consulting detective's hair. John sighs happily and states simply, 'Turns out, a bit of sand and sun can do you a lot of good.'

Sherlock's too tired to lift his head and nod. But John knows what he means and smiles.

...

_Thoughts?_


	6. Rainy Days

**Rainy Days**

It's raining yet again. The streets are drenched – and so is Sherlock Holmes. He's been outside for the past hour or so (doing God knows what), and so is in a thoroughly bad mood. He doesn't like the rain very much, truth be told. It's cold and wet and makes you sick. And it turns the London traffic into a slow, crawling, snarling beast with tempers running high everywhere, so you really can't get home at a decent time.

John, on the other hand, loves the rain. He loves the way it falls, sometimes gently, sometimes hard, and the pitter-patter it always makes soothes him. The rain makes everything look fresh and new again, he thinks. And it's just wonderful to sit inside, when it's cold and rainy outside, and drink a hot mug of tea and eat Mrs. Hudson's freshly-baked scones. It's heaven.

So Sherlock comes home, completely drenched, and sees John sitting in his armchair (said armchair swivelled towards the window), serenely drinking his tea and staring outside at the rain. And seeing his love like that, so calm and peaceful, Sherlock gives up. Gives up trying to be angry at the rain, gives up trying to stand upright. He just _gives in_, and slumps down next to John on the arm of his armchair. John says nothing. He just quietly gets up, walks to their bedroom and gets his blanket, a towel and warm clothes for his detective. And when he comes back, he simply sets to work, peeling Sherlock's dripping clothes off his body, shoving the dry ones into Sherlock's hands and going to the kitchen to make him some tea.

Sherlock, meanwhile, revels in the silence. He snuggles into John's blanket, taking in its delicious warmth and John-smell. John pads over to him silently, hands him the tea and sits himself down next to Sherlock, into the blanket.

And they stay like this for the longest while, neither speaking, just listening to the soothing pitter-patter of the steady rainfall.

Until they fall asleep. The rain is their lullaby.

And the next morning when Sherlock wakes up, he looks down at his lover's face, and realises that he's fallen in love with the calming rain, just like he's in love with his beautiful, calming John.

…

_Thoughts?_


	7. Lists

**Lists**

_We sat and made a list  
Of all the things that we had  
Down the backs of table tops  
Ticket stubs and your diaries_

_I read them all one day  
When loneliness came and you were away  
Oh they told me nothing new,  
But I love to read the words you used_

_- __Things We Lost in the Fire__, Bastille__  
_

It's been many hours since John's left for work, and Sherlock has no case to occupy him. In short? He's a bored man. And everyone knows a bored Sherlock is a dangerous Sherlock.

After leaving John several messages and being snapped at from the other end of the line, masturbating in the shower because he misses his John and eating some of the leftover spaghetti in the fridge, Sherlock decides that there's nothing left to do now but snoop around John's room. Not that it contains much now, anyway, ever since they converted Sherlock's bedroom into _their_ bedroom a few years ago. Still, there might be something interesting left behind there, who knows? And so Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective Extraordinaire, goes sleuthing.

There's the bed, of course, and he gazes at it fondly – for it holds a few amazing memories for him and John. It still has its sheet and duvet, tidily folded in typical John fashion. The chest of drawers has a few dusty photographs and – wait, what's this? It looks like a list, since there are quite a few things written on it in John's neat handwriting, but why does it have _bungee jumping_ and _go to a Coldplay concert _written on it?

He starts to read more of it, but before he's got beyond _7. Go to the opera_, he hears footsteps tread up the staircase and before he knows it, John's calling out for him. He quickly shoves the list into his pocket and goes to meet his love.

John looks tired, but that's not unusual. He's come back looking worse, and once, even puked-upon. He smiles at Sherlock and pulls him into a long, languid kiss that kindles a slow fire in Sherlock's stomach and warms him right to the core. Yes, _of course_ he'd missed John the whole day. And he's so glad he's back. He always is.

Now that he's seen that list, of all the options, going to the opera seems the most credible for him and John, so he makes a mental note to ask Mycroft for those tickets he got from the French ambassador. As for bungee jumping – what even _is_ that?

'Sherlock?' John mumbles into his neck, which is tense.

'Hmm?'

'Stop thinking and kiss me.'

'With pleasure.' Pushing the list out of his mind for later perusal, he kisses John as if his life depended on it. The decision to forgo dinner is unspoken, as their activities go on until the wee hours of the morning.

'What're your thoughts on us going to the opera this Saturday?'

'Wh-what?' John's yawn cuts him off.

'The opera. Mycroft managed to procure some tickets and I thought you'd like to go?'

'How'd you –? Never mind.'

'Well?'

'I guess I wouldn't mind.'

'And I think there's a Coldplay concert coming up –'

'Ah, I see.'

'What?' Sherlock says, knowing full well he's been caught out.

'You found my old bucket list, didn't you?'

'Oh, so _that's_ what it's called!' He doesn't even bother denying it. 'Yes, well,' he adds defensively, 'I know you like Coldplay and they're not too bad, really, so I thought –'

'Then this means you haven't seen the new one.' John smirks. He slides off the bed and makes for the framed periodic table. He searches around in the back of it and pulls out a long piece of paper, and then comes back to Sherlock, handing the list to him. Sherlock's eyes grow wide as he reads what's on it.

_1. Grow old with Sherlock. _

That's it. That's the list. His eyes tear up, and he's not afraid to let them spill over as he kisses John over and over and over until he has to come up for breath.

'Thank you,' he whispers. 'I promise I won't disappoint you.'

John kisses Sherlock's fingertips and hums thoughtfully. 'Going to a Coldplay concert _would _be nice, though.'

'Consider it done.'

…

_Thoughts?_


End file.
